


The Shortcomings Of King Arthur

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reincarnation, Reunion Fic, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their reunion was supposed to be a lot more romantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shortcomings Of King Arthur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aglassfullofhappiness (Cedes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cedes/gifts).



> Merry (late) Christmas! I tried to make a fic out of the Merlin finale that wasn't too sad and angsty. I hope I succeeded.

King Arthur is not all he is cracked up to be.

For one thing, he’s bloody selfish.

Who else but _Arthur_ would leave you here, waiting on him, for hundreds of years? At first the ‘Once and Future King’ deal seemed like a good bargain, but as the years have marched on, you’ve begun to doubt General Management are ever going to give him back. He’s probably being pinballed around in some sort of celestial bureaucracy. Sometimes you imagine angels in very unflattering white robes arguing over which calamity would fulfil the criteria of ‘great need in Albion’.

“Certainly we should have sent him for the First World War,” says one.  “No, no,” says another, holding a large textbook on the matter, “Britain was hardly _directly_ threatened.”

Perhaps they’ve devoted an entire department to the matter by now. If they have, then it’s an entire department of angels that ignore your monthly complaints to the sky. You even take out a cane for the occasion, to better emphasize your fist-shaking and general irritation.

“Just send him back, you miserable cocksuckers!” you yell up to the heavens. Ironically. Well, if you piss them off, at least it means they’re paying attention.

It’s possible, of course, there are no angels or magical beings involved. You prefer to think _someone_ is making the decisions, though; ‘no celestial powers’ quickly turns into ‘no magic’ which quickly turns into an existential crisis that just isn’t healthy for a man of your age. And you’re hardly senile, despite what the boys on Oakery Avenue say. Sometimes you doubt even your own magic, but you never doubt your memory of Camelot, and of Arthur. No, you never doubt in Arthur. He will come back to you.

Eventually.

“Screw the needs of Albion,” you scream, “What about my needs?!”

You’ve thought about it, really thought about it, and you concluded some time around the 1680s that you and Arthur deserve more than to fulfil your role in ‘destiny’. The first time around, Arthur died without seeing Albion in its full glory, with magic allowed and the kingdom thriving. And you were made to plod along and exist without him. What kind of repayment was that for following fate and doing what you were told?

When you find Arthur (and you will), this time you’re not going to stand for any of that nonsense. If an ATM machine labelled ‘Kilgharrah’ so much as beeps at you, you’re going to smash it in and run away laughing madly, lock Arthur in a basement somewhere and let him be entertained by that fantastic invention, the television, until he dies happily at a very, very old age.

You ignore the voice at the back of your head that tells you the world has greater need of Arthur than for BBC ratings.

In your opinion, Arthur is overrated. More a flawed man than the immortal hero those books made him out to be. Definitely not noble, either. Not when he threw clothes at you and called you names and scoffed and rolled his eyes, quite often at the same time. ‘Nobility’ is not the word you think of when you remember him yawning in the morning and wearing only a rumpled white undershirt.

He wasn’t noble, you think, even as you remember a scene from centuries ago. It was the night before battle, and the late sunset hit Arthur’s profile, illuminating his features, carving details from every blemish in his skin. As beautiful and heroic as a painting, and someone no Geoffrey of Monmouth or anyone else could ever put into words.

You were standing next to him, close to him – too close for a servant – but then, you had never been _just_ a servant _._ He had turned to you, and whispered “But you’ll be there, Merlin,” in some strange non-sequitur that probably didn’t mean anything.

(Sometimes, you yell at Arthur instead. Sometimes you cry. Sometimes, when it’s dark and cold, you whisper, ‘But you’re not here for me, you selfish bastard.’)

Today, you venture out to the shops in your usual old, bearded body. As the centuries passed, you adopted it as your main form, changing occasionally into plants or animals or on one particularly memorable occasion, a well-endowed inn keeper’s wife, but never _Merlin,_ Arthur Pendragon’s Merlin _._ Old men attract less attention, anyway. It’s fitting - this was the form you used to hide from him. This is who you are without Arthur – a ghost, a part of the scenery.

Today happens to be the day you meet him again.

Over the years, you’ve imagined the reunion endlessly. Whatever god or dragon or other interfering annoyance thought it would be a good idea to make you immortal probably didn’t even think about how _boring_ it would be. It’s given you plenty of time to become a foolish romantic.

‘Oh Arthur,’ you sigh in one of your more lurid fantasies, ‘Take me here, on the floor.’

‘Oh Merlin,’ Arthur gasps as he obliges, and then, afterwards, confesses, ‘I’ve missed you so,’ whilst looking particularly dashing.

Your fantasies have a common theme, of the two of you locking eyes across various epic-looking scenery. Sometimes it’s a ballroom hall, sometimes it’s the lake of Avalon. You never thought it might be outside a fish and chips shop in the middle of a noisy market square.

Yes, seeing him again is a definite let-down. In fact, you don’t even see him at first.

“I ordered three calamari and two battered fish,” he yells in an imperial tone, “And you gave me _one battered fish_ and _five salads.”_

“Sorry sir, won’t be a minute, sir,” says the poor sod at the counter.

You look up from where you’ve been reading the newspaper. Your beard shrinks off you. Your skin loses about sixty years of wrinkles.

It’s very anti-climatic. You don’t take the time to appreciate the way the sunlight bounces off his golden hair the same way it did lifetimes ago. You don’t even take the time to appreciate the way modern clothes make it much easier to check out his ass. Time doesn’t go in slow motion, and there isn’t any dramatic music.

You walk up to him. You tap him on the shoulder.

“It took you bloody long enough,” you hear yourself say.

He turns around.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, smirking in that way he reserves only for abusing his manservant. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”


End file.
